


only in dreams.

by Christiiiiine



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, No Smut, Not A Fix-It, Not Your Grandmother's Reddie Fic, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christiiiiine/pseuds/Christiiiiine
Summary: The first time Richie came to terms with the fact that he might possibly be totally and irreversibly in love with his best friend was when he entered the Kaspbrak's home to the sound of Queen'slove of my life.Or, Richie, Eddie, and love through music.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Love of My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks.  
> Let me make myself very clear: I have absolutely no free time. There are over twenty unfinished and unpublished fanfics sitting in my google drive as we speak. I do not have any time to write another one, for Christ's sake, I have to finish my research essay on the holocaust. But then I got the flu. There are about six different types of drugs running through my veins as I write this, so forgive me. Please enjoy.

Richie Tozier inhaled the scent of Eddie Kaspbrak's smile. It tainted his hands like counting pennies, and he lay awake every night thinking about the way Eddie would blush whenever Richie would say something even mildly inappropriate. Sometimes when it rained, he would open up the window and stick his hand out and suck the water from his own fingertips because it was pure. It tasted like the high C# on Eddie's piano.

On these nights, Richie would get out his guitar, which was dusty, not for lack of use but because there would be no balance to the universe if his Fender was the only thing he owned that was clean, and he would plug it into the amp and hear it wail because Boys Don't Cry. More specifically, Richie didn't cry. Richie didn't cry because he was the funny one, the one who could never take things seriously. _beep, beep._

Richie painted his nails black to Pavement sometimes.

The Kaspbrak's house was filthy, a fact that Richie had long since found surprising. there were week old dishes in the sink, something that would give Stanley Uris an aneurysm. The only part of the entire house that was clean was Eddie's room, his own doing, with tight hospital corners and each sweater and polo and teeny tiny pair of shorts folded neatly in his cherry bureau. His sneakers, cleaned of mud and shit and grey water, sat lined up underneath his bed. Richie thought that his impeccable organization skills were the cutest thing he had ever seen.

The Kaspbrak's dining room was never used. It sat behind the kitchen in a weird, modern design, and you had to descend a couple of steps to get to it. Richie himself had a scar on his chin from a time he and Eddie had been playing tag inside the house and he'd forgotten about the stairs... His nasty fall had been worth it when Eddie held his hand in the emergency room. But Eddie's pride and joy of the house was the piano that sat behind the dining room table. It had been his father's. His father had taught him everything he knew about the instrument, and Eddie had perfected it by the time he was four years old. And when he died of leukemia when Eddie was six, it was his only way to process his mother's rapidly waning sanity. He harmonized with sounds of chaos overruling his life. 

The first time Richie came to terms with the fact that he might possibly be totally and irreversibly in love with his best friend was when he entered the Kaspbrak's home to the sound of Queen's _love of my life._

He watched Eddie's nimble fingers dance across the keys 

_(Oh, hurry back)_

and he admired the vertebrae protruding from his tee shirt

_(Don't take it away from me)_

and he gawked at the freckles that adorned his face

_(Because you don't know what it means to me)_

Then he cursed.

"Rich?" Eddie blinked.

"Eddie," he managed to choke out.

_(love of my life)_

This time, they both knew well enough.

***

Richie wiped at his eyes, brow furrowing in confusion as his hand came back glimmering with salty tears. He brought his fingers to his lips in contemplation. It tasted salty, wrong. Like how the music that encircled he and his two-year girlfriend flowed from the wrong place, to the wrong people. "What the fuck," he said to no one in particular. Sandy glanced at him. 

"Rich?" She asked, but it felt like it wasn't right. For a second he remembered a pair of hands on alabaster keys, and a smile that sent shivers down his spine. He could feel it slipping away... He reached out for a name, but it was gone. A sob escaped is tightly pressed lips.

"Richie," said Sandy, and grabbed his hand.

“I-I don’t… I don’t know,” he told her honestly. She nodded.

“You’re a strange man, Richie Tozier.” Richie pretended to smile. At least his girl knew him well. And that’s all he could ask for; when he had given up his ability to have children, when he had given up his nighttime shift on the radio station even though the morning shifts paid jack shit, it was all because he loved her.

But maybe the next time he picked up his old Fender he played the stage adaptation of that song by Queen that he knew used to belong to someone special.

And maybe when Sandy came in while he was playing and asked for sex he told her _not right now, babe, I’m tired._

And maybe when The Voice whispered in his ear that night, he ignored it.


	2. gold soundz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two chapters in one day? That's right, bitches, it's ya boi bringing you the good shit. Happy Valentine's day, fuckers.

Eddie felt tortured. 

This was not because of the utter pigsty Richie Tozier called his bedroom… of course, that hardly helped. It was often troubling to Eddie just how many articles of clothing he could scare up on Richie’s bed alone… It sent a shiver down his spine, and not the good kind. He had found a tie next to Richie’s bed a few days prior. Richie didn’t wear ties. Richie wore an amusing medley of hawiian shirts over band tees, or that bomber jacket covered in patches sometimes. 

But today Eddie felt tortured, not because of the alarming state of Richie’s room, but because he hated it when Richie was like this. When he tossed his dark curls around like fucking Ferris Beuller or some shit, his hands cupped around an imaginary microphone as his black lashes fanned out over ivory cheeks behind his coke-bottle glasses. It made his heart beat too fast for comfort.

“Dance with me, Eds,” Richie shouted over the music, which crackled and popped on the old turntable. Eddie only grinned at him and shook his head, slapping Richie’s hand away as he poked at one of Eddie’s dimples. “C’mon,” he pleaded. “Don’t be a stranger, Eddie Spaghetti.” It was Pavement’s _Crooked Rain, Crooked rain._ Pavement was one of Richie’s favorites. Eddie, while not all too interested in the music itself, most certainly saw its appeal. Everything from the strange harmonies in the back to the inconsistent rhythm and the varying guitar parts, even the cover art, was just so unbelievably _Richie._

“Don’t call me that, jackass,” Eddie said, grinning. Richie gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth in mock offense. 

“You’ve wounded me, Eduardo,” he said, collapsing back onto the bed, face-first into his pillow. Eddie pulled on a curly lock of hair. It bounced like a spring, something he found all to amusing to the point where he was concerned for his own sanity. 

“You’re an idiot,” he said fondly. Eddie’s fingers trailed towards the back of Richie’s neck, where his hair was shorter and trailed down towards his atlas in a V. He ran his finger over the coarse hair there for a minute, before Richie was forced to come up out of his pillow for air. 

“Alright, you idiot,” he said. “You can dance with me, but you have to show me how.” Richie squealed. 

“My Eds, my Eddie Spaghetti, the love of my life, I’m going to teach you to dance like a _propah laydee…”_ Eddie rolled his eyes so hard he was afraid they might fall out.

“Rich,” he said. “How many times do I have to tell you that your Voices all sound exactly the same?”

_(so drunk in the August sun)_

“C’mon,” he said. They danced to the bass line, dipping when it leaped. Eddie smiled. The song smelled like cigarette smoke and nail polish to him. It tasted like the chapped skin of Richie's bottom lip. 

_(and you’re the kind of girl I like)_

Richie felt his heart flutter during the part where the lyrics were his favorite.

_(because you’re empty, I’m empty)_

And he sang them to Eddie, grinning at the blush that rose to his cheeks. It felt rainy, like a night when the lamp burned bright and the curtains flapped in the breeze. 

_(and you can never quarantine the past)_

That night, two boys may have found themselves falling deeper and deeper in love. The sound of Eddie's pounding heart was something Richie Tozier knew he could never forget. 

*** 

The crackling and popping of the needle on a record player was the best part of the experience. Someone had told Eddie this when he was younger, someone very important. Eddie hadn’t used his record player in years; that kind of thing pretty much went totally out of style by the time he got to high school, but he’d used his in college some. But the record player was something that had completely slipped his mind by the time he and Myra had married. 

Until he saw a vinyl copy of Crooked Rain in the window of a chic record store in the outskirts of the city. He hadn’t moved that fast in years.

“Eddie…” It was Myra. _God,_ he thought, _I hate how she says my name._ “Eddie, what are you doooooiiiiing?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged, carrying the dusty record player down the stairs carefully.

“The dust will get in your lungs, Edde. Be careful of your asthma…” 

He said, “To hell with my asthma. I bought this record, I’m going to listen to it.” Myra blinked in shock, her massive body stiff as a board as he plugged in his record player and set it on the coffee table. He smiled at the crackle and pop of the needle as he placed it down on the vinyl. It was something he’d forgotten about, and something he probably never would have learned to appreciate if someone hadn’t taught him. And the opening notes of Silence Kid hit and he beamed because this album belonged to somebody he now missed very dearly. Myra sniffed at the way the guitar whined. 

“Well, it’s not a very good album, is it?”

“It was one of his favorites,” Eddie mumbled.

“Who?” she asked.

It didn’t hit him until Gold Soundz. Something crashed down on him like a tidal wave. 

“Don’t call me Eds,” he said. 

“What?” Myra said.

Suddenly his lungs stopped working. 

“I told you, Eddie bear,” she said, handing him his inhaler. “It’s the dust, it’s bad for your asthma.” He told her to shut the fuck up. 

Eddie slept on the couch that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Myra is very wrong. Crooked Rain is a fucking amazing album. Gold Soundz is actually-probably-my favorite Pavement song. It gives off the weirdest vibes, bro... like, yanno when it's dark outside and it's pouring down rain and the curtains are flapping in the breeze there's a lamp on but the light is mellowed by a nice cool-toned lampshade and you're just in here watching M*A*S*H in the lamplight, like there's nothing in the world but you and that show your grandpa used to watch?  
> Hey, I have an idea. You should leave a comment.


	3. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-Hoo! this may be the fic I actually finish. This one's a good one, guys. Changes One Bowie is my go-to contemplative album. It's a little longer than usual. I'm really hitting my stride here, fellas. AND I have a french test tomorrow? I'm at my prime, and I've never felt worse about myself. Enjoy!

Stan hugged his books to his chest a little tighter. He kept his eyes trained on his light blue chucks, careful to avoid a puddle that sat in the uneven road ahead of him. The leaves rustled in the wind, making him paranoid of being followed… were those footsteps he heard behind him? He turned. Sighing and shaking his head, he trudged onward, pulling a red maple leaf out of the tangle of his light curls. 

“Stan the Man!” He startled, dropping his books. It was only Richie, who promptly jumped into that puddle he had been so careful as to avoid. 

“Nice going, asshole,” Eddie quipped. “You’re gonna have soggy socks for the entire day now.” Stan rolled his eyes at Richie’s blush.

“For Christ’s sake,” he said. “Do you get all glow-y like that every single time he acknowledges your existence?” Eddie tried, and failed, to hide his smile. He stared at the puddle, the glassy surface now disturbed above the marbling mud. Richie picked up Stan’s books. 

“Ahh,” he said. “This looks familiar. Stanley, you intellectual. I remember your bird book.”

“Give it here, you ass.” Richie threw a hand over his forehead in mock exasperation.

“Stanley the Manley, you know I love you so, but goddamned if you’re not gonna get shit for this motherfucking avian encyclopedia in fucking high school.” Stanley said nothing in response; this was nothing he didn’t already know. He didn’t care. His birds were a lot more interesting than people were.

Eddie had suddenly become concerningly reserved. Richie glanced at him from the side, but was denied eye contact. 

“At least that won’t change,” Stanley said, smiling. He didn’t give a shit.

“Will things change, do you think?” Eddie asked them quietly. There was a pregnant pause before Richie said, 

“It’s fuckin’ high school, Eds. We’re fourteen; in a year we can get learner’s permits. Yeah, things are gonna change. But who says that has to be a bad thing?” It was a loaded question. And if Stanley knew anything from years of living in this tiny-ass conservative town, the answer probably wouldn’t be the one any of them were looking for. 

“I don’t want things to change,” Eddie said after a few seconds. Richie smiled sadly. There’s so much behind that smile, Stan thought to himself. So much, and he never says any of it. He’s always talking, but nothing he’s ever said is what he means. 

“C’mon, Trashmouth,” he said. “Console your lover here. Aren’t you supposed to be the one who always has something to say? Quote Bowie or something. Anything’s better than this awkward fuckin’ silence.”

“Right-O, Stan the Man,” he said a little too loudly. Stan cringed. “We gotta turn and face the strange. CH-CH-CH-CH-CHANGES, Eddie Spaghetti.” What happened next was strange. Eddie was not an affectionate person, especially any place where they could be seen. Stanley knew the struggles of being queer, even in a northern town in 1990. Things were improving, seemingly everywhere but Derry. The fact that his best friends couldn’t publicly love each other made Stan’s skin crawl. So he and Richie both wore matching expressions of shock when Eddie tucked himself under his lover’s arm, wrapping his own arms around Richie’s waist. Richie pressed his nose into Eddie’s hair silently. Stanley politely finished collecting his books while they had their moment, or whatever, before the three of them kept walking silently.

“You know,” Stan said finally. “Nothing is going to change between us. Losers stick together, no matter what.” He held up his scarred hand. 

“The world could turn upside down, Eds,” Richie added, “And I couldn’t stay away from you. Especially not when your mother starts PMS-ing. She gets all needy and bitchy when--”

“Beep beep, asshole,” Eddie said, but he was smiling. Stan matched his expression. Crisis averted.

***

Eddie gazed into the mirror like a man in a trance. His eyes glazed over as he tied his tie, which was the smooth black silk Myra had picked. An orchid corsage adorned his lapels, and a white handkerchief peeked out from his front pocket. His hair had so much product in it he thought that his head might catch fire if the atmosphere turned a degree above seventy. He inhaled deeply, fiddling with his cufflinks obsessively.

“You are about to marry a wonderful woman,” he said. “You love Myra. Stop second guessing yourself.” It was easy to convince himself that he loved Myra; that wasn’t the problem. He loved her, in some twisted way, because she was safe, familiar. Like his mother. But what was difficult about today wasn’t that he loved her, it was that he could do nothing to convince himself that he would be happy. He had accepted this; he could manage things by himself. There would always be vacations. 

Besides, maybe it would be worth the look on Myra’s face as she finally walked down the aisle. Eddie still had to ask himself if he loved her enough to sacrifice his happiness for hers.

Nothing would change, he thought. He and Myra had lived together for quite some time, and they pretty much acted married in the sense that he drank his coffee and kissed her on the cheek and went to work in the morning, and when he came home he would cook supper and they would watch television. It was a picket fence life, and Eddie didn’t mind. Changes made Eddie nervous.

And then Eddie thought of that song by Bowie. 

One thing that Eddie remembered about high school was that Bowie got him through a lot of shit. He couldn’t tell you what; in fact, if you asked him on any given day, he couldn’t even tell you the name of his high school. In any case, his high school experience had a plethora of long, lonely nights with his Bowie records for company… and for the life of him, Eddie couldn’t tell you who he was pining for, but somewhere in the back of his skull, he knew he still missed them. 

_(Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes, turn and face the strange)_

Oh no.

_(There’s gonna have to be a different man)_

Not now, he told himself. You don’t even remember his name.

_(Time may change me)_

So it was a he.

_(but you can’t trace time)_

His smile must have been beautiful.

***

Myra’s dress was silk, and it was the purest shade of white Eddie had ever seen. Her hair was styled in ringlets with pieces pinned up willy nilly. There were flowers and jeweled butterflies tucked behind her ears and on top of her veil, which protruded from the crown of her head and lay stiff in layers down her back. A small pink sash came to a bow at her left hip. Eddie was not smiling. Eddie felt nothing. Eddie is g-

Don’t say it. If you don’t say it, it can’t be true.

Eddie grabbed Myra’s hand and turned to face the priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, good sir, spare a comment?


	4. Stand By Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, fellas. I need you all to sound off in the comments. How are we feeling? I want to know if everyone is safe. I'm not too fond of this whole self-quarantine thing myself, but this kept me pretty busy for a hot second. Thoughts to all of you.

The Quarry felt comforting. It embraced each of them like a hug from a parent who loved them, and for the losers, who all scarcely, if ever, received hugs from parents with nothing to gain, it brought forth in all of them tears of relief that made streaks on their dust-caked cheeks. The water cleansed them of shit and blood and whatever the hell else they had accumulated during their time in that place that made Tartarus fear for its title.

Richie was the first to approach Stanley, who was busy getting the blood out of his hair which had matted into what Richie would literally define the term rat’s nest by. He stood in the shallow water, wincing as he raked his fingers through his light curls. Richie did his best to doggy-paddle over to Stan, keeping up an effort not to pass out from exhaustion. They’d all been running on adrenaline for the past few days, and as soon as that fucking clown had dissapeared so did any ounce of strength any of them had had left. He pulled himself up onto a rock next to the other kid, his skinny arms shaking from the effort. 

“Stanley,” he said. “We did it.” Stanley seemed to have been quite dazed, blood pooled in the cuts and teeth marks on his face, mingling with the brackish shitty water of the Quarry. 

“Yes,” said Stanley. “But it might come back.” Richie shook his head.

“No,” he said, “No way. Bill shot it. It fell down a well… it’s fucking dead. It’s done, Stanley. It’s gone.”

“But what if it’s not?” Stanley said anxiously. “What if it comes back? Oh, God, Richie, what if it wants revenge?” At this, Richie placed both of his hands on the back of Stan’s neck and said,

“I’m sorry, Stanley.” A crease formed in between Stan’s eyebrows as his brow furrowed in confusion. 

“I’m so, so sorry we let you out of our sight. I don’t know what happened to you down there, but I can’t tell you enough how sorry I am that it did. But you need to understand, Stanley, that we would never, ever leave you like that. I know I’m a sucky friend, okay, I talk way too much and I never listen, but you need to know that I love you, okay?” They were both crying now, Stanley in heavy sobs into his hand that wracked his body, and Richie silent tears disguised by the quarry water that beaded his face. 

“I love you too, Rich,” he said. “And you’re not sucky. I couldn’t ask for a better best friend, Richie.”

“Those are some big words, Staniel, for someone who thought I’d left him for dead,” he whispered. Stan was silent for a minute. 

“I guess,” he began, speaking very slowly and thoughtfully. He was curling the hair above his left ear in his finger repeatedly, something he did only when he was very anxious. “I think I know that, somewhere down in my brain, but there’s something else stopping me from believing it. Like a voice in my head… only sometimes it’s not really a voice, just a feeling… but a feeling that tells me I’ll never find love, I’ll never make it. I don’t know, it’s stupid.” Richie thought for a second.

“Remember that time I stayed in bed for a week, right after Thanksgiving? I didn’t come to school, and Eddie got worried and came over?” Stan nodded.

“We were all worried, Rich. We only sent Eddie over because he looked about ready to have an aneurysm.” Richie smiled.

“Anyway,” he said. “Good ol’ Eddie Spaghetti panicked because it was the first time he’d seen me quiet, pretty much ever, yanno? Well I’ll tell you a little secret. I wasn’t actually sick.”

“I know,” Stan said. “And so did Eddie. He panicked; then he called me.”

“That’s right,” said Richie, nodding. “It wasn’t that I felt sad, though I’ve felt sad before, but it was like there was something preventing me from feeling happy at all, like a glass wall or something.”

“Not a wall,” said Stan, “something sticky, like molasses.” Richie snapped his fingers. 

“Molasses, right. I couldn’t even remember anything making me happy, ever. I thought I was broken. But Stan,” he said, very seriously. It made Stan feel sober, suddenly, to look in Richie’s eyes and to not see them smile, only for the second time in all the years they’d known each other. “If you think you’re broken, then God knows I’m broken, too. We love you, Stanley Uris.”

“Y-Yeah,” said Bill. The losers had all gathered around the two of them. Ben was enveloping Stan in a tight hug, leaving Mike and Bill to grip both of his arms till their knuckles turned white. Bev rested her chin on Richie’s shoulder and put her hand on the small of Stan’s back. Eddie touched Stan’s foot lightly, watching mostly from afar from where he sat next to Richie. Nobody mentioned that they were holding hands. 

That night saw all seven of them sitting on a mattress on Richie’s living room floor. Stand By Me was running in the background, the volume down very low, so as not to disturb Eddie, who had fallen asleep on top of Richie and was now drooling on his neck a little bit. His cast was filthy. You could hardly make out the black sharpie in the bold, messy hand of Gretta Keene that still tainted it, but the bright red V in the center was still very much present. 

“Took you two long enough, Tozier. Christ,” Stan said under his breath.

“Fuck off,” Richie mouthed. He smiled down at Eddie.

“Gross,” said Bev. She whacked Bill with the back of her hand playfully. “Look at what our Trashmouth’s face is doing, Bill. Have you ever seen it do that before?”

“A-A-All the time,” he said. “R-R-Remember when E-Eddie had ice cream, a-a-a-and R-Richie kept trying to -- to lick some of it? E-Eddie started yelling and--”

“Jesus Christ,” Stan said. “We’ve known for ages, Rich. How long have you two been like that, huh? I can't believe you couldn't have been bothered to tell us.”

“I carved our initials on the kissing bridge,” Richie said suddenly. Eddie stirred; he was having a nightmare. 

“Shh,” Richie said, raking a hand through Eddie’s hair gently. “You’re okay.” Eddie mumbled Richie’s name. Richie’s cheeks bloomed in pink. The rest of the losers all smiled. 

"just a few weeks," Richie said. "I kissed him the day after Bev came to the Quarry in almost nothing and I was staring at Eddie the whole time."

“You’re such an idiot,” Bev said. Richie turned up the TV so that they could hear the song playing underneath the very end of the movie. 

_(when the night has come)_

“But you love me,” Richie smiled. Underneath him, Eddie opened his eyes.

_(And the land is dark)_

“Of course I do, Rich,” Bev smiled. “I love all you sons of bitches.”

_(And the moon is the only light we see)_

“Me too,” Eddie said softly. “I love you all, too.”

_(No, I won’t be afraid)_

“But me especially, right, Eddie Spaghetti?”

_(Oh, I won’t be afraid)_

“Yeah, Rich,” he whispered. “`Specially you.”

_(Just as long as you stand, stand by me)_

***

The rest of the Losers were asleep; Eddie had made sure of this before creeping silently across the hallway to Richie’s bedroom. He rapped on the door softly with his knuckles. It took a concerningly short amount of time for Richie to open the door. He came out a hot mess, wearing red boxers and an old-looking white t-shirt with holes in it, running a hand through his hair anxiously. 

“Yeah,” he said, as if he’d been expecting Eddie. “Come in.” 

They were silent for a moment; Richie watched Eddie, and Eddie’s eyes glazed over the television screen, one of those old music channels where the name and artist bounced all around the screen, which provided the only light in the room. It was on mute.

“I saw you on SNL,” he said suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Your Alan Alda impression was spot-on.” Richie said nothing.

“I called my wife,” Eddie said.

“Oh,” Richie said.

“I asked for a divorce,” Eddie said.

“Why?” Asked Richie.

“Why?” Eddie repeated. “I think you know why, Rich.” Richie sighed.

“It’s been, like, twenty-two years, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snapped on instinct. They both smiled a little.

“Regardless,” he continued, composing himself. “I’m still in love with you. I don’t mind if you don’t feel the same way,” he said hurriedly, “I just want you to know. And I didn’t think it was fair to her. To be married to a… to a gay guy. And… I don’t know, Rich. She’s an awful lot like my mother.”

“No, yeah,” Richie nodded quickly. “I… Me too, by the way. I… I love you, still, too.” Eddie smiled.

“Look at us, Rich. We’re forty fuckin years old and we talk like awkward teenagers.”

“My ex always said I never grew up,” he smiled. “Besides, you always made me speechless.”

“Do I still?” Eddie whispered.

“Yes,” Richie told him. “Every time.” Eddie sat down on the edge of the bed. He buried his head in his hands and let out a deep sigh. 

“This is so fucked up,” he said. “I can’t believe Stan…” Richie sat down next to him and began to rub his back. It was only when he made a move to wipe his eyes that Eddie realized he’d been crying. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the music. 

_(so darling, darling, stand by me)_

“We gotta kill this thing,” Richie said. 

_(Oh, stand by me now, stand by me)_

Eddie nodded. “For Stan,” he said. “And for us. For us, Richie. We need our Happily Ever After.”

_(Stand by me, stand by me.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do we think, dudes? Did I do the song justice? If not, yell at me in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> HEY! Guess what? This fic is based off a playlist I made while I was procrastinating! Listen to it here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5zCBPp9stuHnDSKi2mXOuy?si=89NNUUZsQ4C0wW5NKF5m2Q  
> Please, for the love of God, leave a comment. Please.


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